Sunday March 2, 1975

3rd Sunday in Lent. Very mild day. After a nice lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding I nip into the garden and do a spot of pruning. The roses at the front of the house yield to my plans, but after an hour or so I retire to the lounge with an orange and a terrible thirst. Sue too is gagging for liquid refreshment, and Peter comes up with a bottle of ale for her. We've either had an excess of salt in the lunch or we have all fallen foul of a sudden attack of alcoholism. It could quite possibly be the latter.

Down to the Hare at 8 with John and Naomi. Julie Slater and Gillian come too, and I can't help laughing at the way Gillian treated Peter M last night. They were all 'lovey-Dovey' on Friday at Wikis, but she didn't even look at him last night! The poor chap is so confused. Sit with Helen all night at the same table as Carol and her latest. John comes across at about 10.15 and asks whether I want to go to Gillian's to finish off the booze left over from her brother's 21st. I say yes, but get a dirty look when Helen makes a move too. In other words, they want me, but they don't want Helen. In the end neither of us go, and we stay at the Hare until closing.

Christine rang me this afternoon inorder to give me her London address where she'll be residing until Friday. Chris tonight thought for certain that it was all over, and that Christine was too scared to tell him. After all they've not been out since last Saturday. He can't really complain after 2 months anyway. I'll write to pass on Philip's messages.

Home at 11 to see the end of a film with Dad and Lynn & Dave. The young lovers look bored lately and I hope it isn't all breaking up. They make such a good couple.

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Saturday March 1, 1975

St David's Day. Weird goings on indeed today. The bloody fog is still here, and so I refuse to venture out of doors until the call of the pub summons me in the evening.

Down to the Hare & Hounds where I discover that a party is being thrown in Otley by one of Linda Smith's colleagues. At first the idea doesn't seem too bad, but hang on a minute. Chris brings Denny down with him. She's no longer a smoker, and discos are no longer a thrill and a joy to her. Ade is ruining her life but she refuses to realise it. The poor girl will be engaged and married off by the summer of '76 - you mark my words. Linda Smith says that Christine Dibb and Helen Lockyer (Jane's sister) can't come to the party, but I protest and also refuse to go. The three of us remain at the Hare. June Dixon, a real snobby weirdo, and her pal, Brenda take the three of us to the Fox - the next pub down from the Hare. We stay until 10.45 and go after being insulted by one of the barmaids. Back to Helen's in Menston. Drink Martini, beer and whisky in front of the TV until it closes down and then go through a book containing the works of Salvador Dali. June and Brenda leave at 12 - in something of a hurry after I said something disagreeable, and the three of us remained until 3.30. Finished off with toast and Bovril then Jane drove us home.

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Friday February 28, 1975

Go to Leeds on the 55 bus and encountered Philip Knowles no less. He had certain unrepeatable things to say about Christine, but otherwise it was a pleasant journey. Work was busy but pleasant. Didn't arrive until 9.15 and left at 4.30. My lovable boss is worth her weight in gold.

On Wednesday in the Hare I had an interesting conversation with Helen and we decided to hold a joint birthday celebration on April 5. Something like Chris and Laura did last year - a coach party job. She's going to do some ringing round over the next few days. May as well arrange it as soon as possible.

At lunchtime I get another pair of trousers - brown this time though.I'll be something like a living tailor's dummy by the time Spring pops up.

To the Hare & Hounds with Lynn and Dave. Chris comes along. Christine is babysitting or something equally obnoxious for a Friday. Keith and Helen, Carol (with her hair up). No Phyllis Whitethighs she has galloping pneumonia or something. John and Naomi in all their splendour. Helen (or Southern Comfort Sally), and that's about it. The Happy Family in the Hare and all is well. Some move on to the Malt Shovel in Menston, but the life and soul remain faithful to the Pub of Pubs.
To Wikis where Christine Dibb and I dance ourselves into a semi-state of unconsciousness. At 1.30 whilst we are still dancing the others creep home leaving us to our own devices. We walk home together at 2. a bit misty, but no cold which was a God send.

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Thursday February 27, 1975

More ruddy fog all day. I don't mind snow. I can tolerate frost, ice, rain, heatwaves and hurricanes, but I draw the line at fog. A lung congesting white blanket which does nothing but depress all who who into contact with it. Sickening.

We all, other than Kathleen that is, evacuate the library and perch in 'the Black Hole of Calcutta' as Ronnie Wilkinson would say. Bogged down cutting yesterdays EP and todays YP.

Escape to the Central with Eileen again for our Thursday afternoon booze-up. This is becoming quite a regular thing, and I only hope we can manage to keep it up. The trouble is I become so tired after a lunchtime drink. By 3.30 I'm invariably snoring under a desk or in a semi-coma behind a filing cabinet. Out at 4.30 and home by 5.15.

Tomorrow Uncle Harold and the Labour government more or less celebrate their first birthday. I say 'more or less' because the general election was on Feb 28, but the late Mr Heath didn't resign until the middle of August or something. Please do not think that my views about the government have changed in any way. That would be the last thing I'd want. It's just that I've made up my mind that Uncle Harold isn't such a filthy old Bastard after all. In fact, he's quite human really. If he changed to a Tory I'm sure he'd do everyone a favour. Anyway, he pushed the Queen's money through parliament last night, which was good of him.

Let the Bells ring out! Marita just rang. She's coming out with us the weekend after next.

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Wednesday February 26, 1975

A busy day really. Sarah, Carol and I go down to Whitelocks for a few jars and a bite to eat. Sarah is really funny. She could get pissed on a pint of water. Two ciders and she's anybodys.

Maybe I'm just a cynic but I had to laugh at a marriage announcement in the Times this morning. Lady Jane Fitzalan-Howard, daughter of the old Duke of Norfolk who was taken from us three and a half weeks ago, is to marry Lord Ancram, the elder son of the Marquis of Lothian. Now you may think nothing of this at all, but I can't help having my doubts. The old duke must have refused to allow any of his daughters to leave his side. Threats of cutting them off without a penny, &c. Was Uncle Bernard typranical? Let's see how quickly the three remaining daughters grab a few men and march them down the aisle.

Thank God it's pay day tomorrow. I'm really stony broke this week. What with saving up for Majorca and bloody Barclaycard I'll be bloody grey and toothless by my 20th birthday. It's a week since I've heard from Marian. So I may as well wave bye bye to her, and Gillian's stopped mauling me. So I once again revert to a celibate state. Anyone would think I'm standing for Pope at the next election. Pope Michael the First. Yes, that's got a nice ring to it.

John doesn't go out. Chris collects me at 8.30. To the Hare & Hounds with Laura and Carol. Have a few laughs, though nothing startling occurs.

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Tuesday February 25, 1975

Bit of a miserable day really. Do all my work before lunch and do sweet sod all in the afternoon. The whole day dragged by and I was positively thrilled to be able to get away at 4.30.

Nothing spectacular in the news other than the death of Marshal Bulganin, a trumped up Russian war hero.

Home at 5.30 and indulge in a meal of liver, chips and peas. Most enjoyable to say the least. Mum, having been to the bank for me, hands me back my book containing £16.33, and when the £10 in Chris's possession is added to this a sizeable sum is conjured up.
Chris Monckton is now writing in the 'People' section of the YP. Why am I telling you this? Well, I'm just proving what being heir to a title can do, and where it can get you. It's editor here we come for Chris one day. Just you see.

Look in Crockford's Clerical Directory for the Rev A.B. Downing, but he isn't in. Horrid thought immediately spring to mind. Is he a Methodist or Presbyterian minister? Aaarrgghh....John cannot be associated with a daughter of one of those.

Old Princess Alice, Countess of Athlone is 92 today. I've worked it out that on June 15, 1977 she will be the oldest ever living member of the British Royal Family. The one in the lead at the moment is Princess Augusta, a granddaughter of King George III, an aunt of Queen Mary. Come on, Alice! Don't give in! It would be great if she managed it. But at 92 people can be so unpredictable, or is it predictible?
See a good Jack Lemmon film on the BBC.

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Monday February 24, 1975

More bloody fog all day. Creep to the YP with Jim in the car, bumper to bumper all the way. See in the papers that Uncle Harold is to make a statement in the Commons today about the 'Royal shares' leakage. On the 6 o'clock news tonight Harold says the reports in the Morning Star are true, and Scotland Yard are looking into the whole affair. Some filthy swine has obviously waited until the Civil List is about to be debated before dropping this bombshell. Many MPs want to know how we can possibly justify giving £450,000 to the Civil List when private royal finance interests are unknown and shrouded in privacy. The poor Queen can't be enjoying her Mexican visit at all.

Home at 5.15. Lynn is in bed with funny pains in her stomach. Mum says she's had some idea that something's been wrong for about 10 days, and appendix cannot be ruled out. She doesn't look too good. I'll be glad when the doctor has seen her in the morning.

Old Mrs Thing across the road was found dead in bed last night. I hate people dying without letting people know - most inconsiderate, and it's always such a messy business what with the police and the Coroner, &c, &c. I delivered her morning paper many years ago, but otherwise I never came into contact with her.

John discovered this evening that Naomi's papa is a vicar! Yes, the Rev A.B. Downing is listed in the telephone directory as living at Naomi's address, so it must be the case. Please remind me to watch my language when I meet her again.

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